


So You Want To Spin The World Around

by genee



Category: Bandom, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-23
Updated: 2009-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:46:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Gerard has a million sketches of Nick from back then.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	So You Want To Spin The World Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [turlough](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turlough/gifts).



> turlough asked for gerard way and nick carter, and in my head "i'll invent a relationship for them" turned into "i'll tell you how they met" which really isn't the same thing at all, i know, but hopefully it works just as well. title from an old gomez song, we haven't turned around.

Gerard glances over his easel at the rest of the students. It's a master class, which pretty much just means it's expensive as fuck, and if he hadn't already paid, like, a hundred years ago, he totally wouldn't be here because, whatever. He's got a band now, he's writing lyrics, Mikey's getting really good on bass, and it sends a fucking hot little thrill through him just thinking about it. It's everything he wants and art, art is in his blood, definitely, he's always gonna draw, he's always gonna create shit, he's always gonna tell stories, but right now, right now, he's telling those stories with music, he's got something to say, he's reaching out, he's – fuck, he's already missed half of the introductions, not to mention everything the instructor said before they started going around the room.

Three easels to his right some chick's going on about her own personal art history or whatever, and Gerard's not trying to be demeaning, he's not, he just catches the eye of the guy beside him and he can't help it if they both grin a little. The guy is blond-haired and blue-eyed and doesn't look at all like he belongs in a ratty New York art studio. Gerard learns his name is Nick when he introduces himself, and that's all he learns, because he says, "I'm Nick," and he smiles this crazy bright smile, and turns to Gerard, shrugging a little, and it takes a minute for Gerard to figure out that's all he's gonna say, because, seriously? What the fucking fuck?

Gerard says, "I'm, uhm. I'm Gerard Way. Gerard, yeah." He can feel himself blushing, but he looks up anyway, nods once, and the person on his other side, Susan, launches into a stilted explanation of who she is and why she's here, and Gerard stands there and thinks about what he would have said if Nick hadn't gone first, thinks he'd have sounded like an idiot, like a pretentious little shit, his education, his aesthetic. It feels right that instead he just said his name, more like a rockstar, less like an artist. It's just his fucking name but he's still gonna practice later, make it sound stronger, more confident. He thinks, _I'm Gerard and you're beautiful_ , and smiles to himself. Mikey's gonna give him so much shit about it, and he doesn't even care.

He adjusts his easel a little, looks over and sees Nick doing the same. Nick's tall, taller than Gerard, and he's tan even though it's almost winter, freckles across his nose, gray light turning golden on his skin. Gerard wants to feel the way the light bends around him, taste it on his tongue, capture it on paper, in words, in music and lyrics so right they'll change the way people feel when they hear them, the way they live, the way light bends, the way Nick moves and it seems like the shadows move around him.

Gerard licks his lips and closes his eyes for a minute, tries to take in this feeling he has right now, breathe it, swallow it, hold it inside and let it grow, let it become him, because this, this is the way he wants to feel forever. He thinks his heart might beat right out of his chest, huge and swollen, blood and flesh and broken bones. It's a sweetass image, really, it's what he's doing now, these pieces of himself, of his band, of everything, of the way it's all connected up together, and maybe it's a cliché but it's still sweet, and he files it away for later.

For now he clears his throat and focuses on the model on the dais in the center of the room, the bite of the paper under his hand, the slide of the charcoal. As he works the sounds of the other students drawing and the instructor's low tones as he walks around fade into the background, become part of his drawing, this moment that goes on and on, the way Nick feels beside him, warm, solid, sketching and erasing and sketching some more.

When the class breaks for fifteen, they smoke out on the fire escape together, Nick tapping out a second cigarette before he finishes his first, lighting one off the other, charcoal smudges on his face, on the crumpled pack of Marlboro reds he looks at wistfully before tucking it back into his pocket, the wind flattening out the soft spikes of his hair, pushing it up again when he turns.

Nick says he travels a lot but he's originally from Florida, which Gerard thinks suits him. They don't say much more, they just smoke, leaning together a little, hole in the sky and Gerard thinking about Mikey, about Jersey, about everything he's trying to change and everything he's _not_. Gerard wonders if Nick thinks Jersey suits him, too.

Gerard watches him at the end of class, all of the students pinning their work to the bulletin board that lines the far wall, nervous, checking out each other's work, different versions of the same thing. Gerard just checks out Nick, the way he bites his lip, the way he looks like Gerard feels when he thinks about his band, _his kickass fucking band_ , god, there should be more of this feeling in the world, it's what he wants, it's totally _totally_ what he wants.

While the class comments on Susan's piece, Gerard asks Nick if he wants to grab some coffee, maybe, and Nick shines that smile on him, fishes his smokes from his pocket while he listens to the critiques, tucks one behind his ear. Gerard barely listens to the commentary on his own piece, but he thinks Nick's lines are good and he says as much, the instructor voicing his agreement, adding in some more solid critique, useful stuff Nick writes down in his notebook, squinting a little, nodding. Gerard notices the teeth-marks in his pencil, the scratches on his forearm; he thinks about sand, saltwater.

Nick hums as they pack up their stuff, something soft Gerard doesn't recognize, something catchy. He pulls on a sweatshirt, blue and faded, torn at the cuffs, and he looks young suddenly, young and happy. He smiles at Gerard again, arms brushing as they walk, portfolios slung over their outside shoulders, the city streaming all around them, noisy, alive. Gerard promises himself he's going to get Nick's number before he goes home tonight, that he's going to see Nick again, that this isn't a one-time thing, charcoal and coffee and smoke billowing between them, Nick humming still, light bouncing off his skin.

 

 

\-- End --


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